


pain

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [85]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, the newmann is implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 03:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20090674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Hermann knows Newt—perhaps better than he knows even himself.(Even after a decade.)





	pain

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt: Hermann knows exactly what pain sounds like from Newton. He'll always know."

The cell they keep Newton in, strapped upright, blood still on his collar, is small; the walls, sloped in, give one the sense that it’s even smaller—small enough to be claustrophobic; or, at least, claustrophobic for Newton.

That thing—those _things_ in there, in the cell—are not Newton.

Hermann knows exactly what pain sounds like from Newton. He’ll always know.

And for all that it wears his face and speaks in his voice, that is the one thing—besides, perhaps, the soullessness in his eyes—that is a dead giveaway. The Precursors are _loud_. They yell and rage and, once, memorably, spit at his feet, blood flecking the ground as well as saliva, sneer at him—which, admittedly, Newton did once, as well, under a wholly different set of circumstances—but—

When they rub Newton’s wrists raw and bloody on the bindings, they _scream._

Newton—

When Newton is in pain, he’s quiet; the worse the pain, the quieter he gets—_frighteningly _so.

(Hermann doesn’t like to remember how he found it out; the memory is one that haunts him in his sleep, though—because he knows, had someone else not pointed out that Newton was _unusually_ quiet—

Well.

He spent a week at the side of Newt’s bed in the infirmary.

He doesn’t want to think what could have happened instead.)

“He looks fine, now,” Ranger Pentecost observes staidly, hands clasped behind his back; the weariness worn into the lines on his face, and yet, nevertheless, he refuses to let it drag him down. “Are you _sure_ that—?”

“_Yes,_” Hermann snaps, not even turning to look at him; voice short and strained; hopes, desperately, that his own exhaustion and fear do not show. “It’s not—that is not him, Ranger; I know Newton’s behaviour as well as—perhaps, _better_ than—my own. That—that _thing_ looking back at me is _not_ Newton Geiszler.”

He tightens his grip on the head of his cane; watches the Ranger’s reflection in the glass raise a brow. “It’s been ten years, Gottlieb,” he says, “perhaps…”

_Perhaps he’s truly changed._

“He is _not_ complicit in this,” Hermann bites. “I know what you think—”

“Hey, hey, chill,” Pentecost placates, “that’s not what I mean, Doc. I’m just saying that he might have changed in a decade, even just a bit. No one’s saying he’s the one who did it, yeah?”

“…yes, apologies,” Hermann says, after a moment. “I, ah. Perhaps I’m just a bit…_anxious,_ I suppose. Well, Newton did always say I was tightly wound,” he adds, with a self-deprecating half-smile.

The other hums; gaze flicking back to the bed on the other side of the glass; to Newton, sedated on a hospital bed; Hermann winces as he catalogues the number of tubes; the hospital gown he _knows_ is too flimsy to keep <strike>his friend</strike> Newton from waking with icy skin.

Hermann swallows; glances away.

This hurts; to stand here, separated by mere glass, and yet—

The distance feels further than it ever has.

The shift of weight from one foot to the other, the rustle of fabric; he turns his head, finds the young ranger’s gaze fixed on him, expression unreadable. Hermann refuses to let the other’s intensity discomfit him.

After a moment, Pentecost says, “You…you’re _mourning._”

“I—” he stops, not sure how to continue. “What gives you that impression?”

“I hear things,” Pentecost shrugs. “It’s no secret that you and Geiszler were…friends.”

_More,_ Hermann thinks, _more than mere friends._ “_Are,_” he says. “I have no reason to believe that…that we no longer _are._”

“But that’s what you’re afraid of,” states the younger; offers the barest tilt of his head. “You’re mourning, because in your mind, you’ve already lost him.”

Hermann gives a sardonic smile. “You should have been a shrink instead of getting mixed in with the Jaegers.”

“We’d all be dead if I had,” Pentecost counters.

Hermann dips his head. “Fair enough.”

“Word of advice,” Pentecost says, turning to him fully. “Don’t mourn. It…” he hesitates. “Don’t give up before you even give it a shot,” he says, finally. “Trust me.”

Then, he turns, leaving Hermann by himself. “…perhaps he’s right,” Hermann murmurs, turning back to the glass, presses his hand against it. “Do you think so, Newton?”

The other doesn’t respond, sedated as he is, but Hermann takes comfort in that he’s still _alive._ “Yes, perhaps,” he murmurs. “Sleep well, Newton Geiszler; may our dreams both be free of nightmares.”

* * *

When he sleeps, he dreams of Newton; of the biologist’s laughter, of his limbs sprawled over the arms of the sofa, of the soft exhale of his breath, warm against the skin of Hermann’s neck.

He dreams of the future; of one where Newton, though still not _alright_ is getting _better;_ a future where Hermann can be there for him when he goes silent with pain; a future where they get to reclaim a lost decade.

On the other side of the shatterdome, behind a bullet-proof two-way glass barrier, secured in a medical bed, Newton Geiszler slowly begins to wake for the first time in years, inexplicably at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [pacificrimdyke](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
